


A Beacon

by Leamas



Category: If We Were Villains - M.L. Rio
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-30
Updated: 2018-06-30
Packaged: 2019-05-31 02:47:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15110258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leamas/pseuds/Leamas
Summary: It's Oliver who finds him on that horrible night by the lake.





	A Beacon

The whole of Richard’s weight fell against him, heavy, heavier than James thought it should be, and even after pushing Richard off James still felt him there, over him, on top of him, chest-against-chest, the weight that made it hard to breathe. His heartbeat was hammering the inside of his skull like it was fighting to break out, and so James did not hear the sound of his own thoughts—although it was not so loud that James didn’t hear Richard fall over the dock where the water took him. This all in under a minute, close to sixty seconds after James swung his arm out and felt what he held in his hand make contact with the side of Richard’s skull.

He couldn’t look at what he held, any more than he could let go, or cry out—all things that he desperately wanted to do.

Instead he threw himself away from the dock’s edge and struggled to throw himself to his feet, but that was another thing that he couldn’t seem to manage. James was on his knees, although he did not remember falling or feeling the crack that should accompany such a fall. When finally James began to sob no tears came to his eyes. It was soundless except for the sharp edge separating each breath from the next like the way a door might separate Richard from Meredith and Oliver or like sixty seconds might separate one terrible situation from a different, equally terrible situation. He remembered neither starting nor stopping, but sound found himself looking up at the castle, towards the tower, and seeing it jut out against the sky. It was the only thing James could see that made sense, a kind of beacon; a lighthouse to guide him away from the violet water and back to safety.

Somehow he was able to push himself to his feet this time, and somehow he succeeded in walking back to the shore, past the supply shed where he’d taken the thing that he now carried. He could no sooner let go of this thing than he could let go of his hand, ad right now he was as aware of it as he was of how his fingers locked around the heavy piece of metal: not very. With his other hand he wiped his face, and when his fingers came back damp he wiped them on his shirt. It was absolutely necessary that he keep walking. He looked at the tower, and not to the lake, and realised as he walked that he was speaking, and from the cadence of his words he knew that they were not his own words but Shakespeare’s, but as soon as they passed through his lips they were forgotten, escaping from him forever.

He knew when he stopped speaking, although it was still a moment before he realised why, and why he also stopped walking.

James did not believe that Oliver Marks was standing in front of him, and would have sooner believed that Richard himself was standing there, although if he was he would not be silent and he would not be looking at James but hurting him, and because the lake had taken him.

When he faced an audience the dynamics were such that they looked at him and knew him, or believed they did, but he saw none of them and could only hope that he could explain himself. He faced Oliver this same way.

“Where’s Wren?” James croaked out.

“She’s still at the castle,” Oliver said. “It’s just me.”

“Is it really?” James stepped closer to Oliver until they stood only a few feet from each other. “What about… what about Meredith?”

Oliver shook his head. “No.”

“Weren’t you with her?”

James didn’t know why this was so important. Maybe it was because he was still struggling to understand how Oliver could be hear when he thought he was alone in the worst way; or because Richard was still close to his thoughts and Meredith was _with_ Richard; or because _with_ implied a certain degree of loyalty.

Oliver, too, seemed confused, and he didn’t answer because he couldn’t seem to understand what was being asked.

As they looked at each other, like they were both trying to work this out, James watched Oliver’s face change. As an actor James had fielded questions about how he conveyed so much without a word: the grief in a nod or the power in a flick of the wrist, how a word was not just a word. This he could never explain; he could only recognise it and respond.

“Don’t look at me like that,” James responded, surprised at how cold his voice sounded to him.

“James—”

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Unlike what Oliver would ask in return, this sounded like an accusation.

“Whose blood is that?”

The thing in his hand finally fell away, and he took several steps back, covering his face. There was nothing that he could use to cover the rest of him. He might have thought to run if Oliver hadn’t grabbed him first, two hands closed on his arms that were somehow stronger than how Richard held him.

“Let me go!” James was screaming. “Don’t touch me!”

“James, no—”

“Don’t touch me!” He shook Oliver off and shoved him away, hard enough to make him stumble. James couldn’t look at him. He scrubbed his face with his sleeve but still felt the stickiness on his skin, Richard’s drunken breath on his skin, the cold night air and the cold lake that he’d crawled out of many weeks before, almost dead. He’d given the lake a thirst for blood and then he’d fed it. It was an accident but he’d done it, and now Oliver was here. The most innocent person that James knew was looking in at the proof of what he’d done. James thought he would scream, and he wanted to, but he couldn’t.

He took several long, deep breaths instead.

Immediately when he could he looked back at Oliver. If he couldn’t name to what happened between him and Richard, he was even more hopelessly lost when it came to translating the look on Oliver’s face.  

“Oh, Oliver,” James said. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened—I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“James, it’s okay. I promise.”

“I don’t want you to see this.”

“Are you hurt?”

The question wounded him. James could not answer, but Oliver seemed to misunderstand the reason for James’ silence.

“Is that your blood?”

“No. Oliver, please…”

“What?” Oliver asked. "Tell me what you need."

“Richard,” he started; unable to continue he tried again, with equal success: “You don’t know…” He didn’t know if he was trying to blame Richard or himself.

Oliver took a step closer, pausing to look down at the thing that James had dropped before looking back to James. His hand twitched. James realised that he wanted to reach out, but thankfully he didn’t. James was tremendously disappointed.

“Where is Richard?”

“In the lake.”

“Can I help you?”

“Oliver, don’t you get it?” James asked. “No one can help. Not the police or Gwendolyn or Frederick, or the administration, or you—” He shut his eyes. The weight was on his chest again, then on his shoulders before finally wrapping itself around his shoulders as Oliver drew their bodies close together. He finally cried out, then held Oliver and mumbled something about not wanting Oliver to see him like this, but Oliver just held him as though he weren’t afraid of getting blood on his hands.


End file.
